


Love Sick

by bigfrakkingheroes



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Bisexual Ben Hanscom, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, M/M, Movie: IT (2017), Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigfrakkingheroes/pseuds/bigfrakkingheroes
Summary: Eddie-lives-AU.Doctors cart Eddie away and ask Richie questions he doesn’t have the answer to, like: friend or family?What does 27+ years of unrequited love get you?--Lots of Richie/Eddie pining & slow burn romance. Swearing, sex, & minor mentions of Ben/Richie and Ben/Beverly.





	1. Chapter 1

The clown was dead. But things weren’t perfect. Not right away, anyway.

Richie goes back to the rubble, where he finds Eddie. Barely alive. Covered in blood and dust. But a pulse. Still breathing.

He carries the limp man—somehow—to his car and drives him to the Derry hospital.

They cart him away, ask Richie questions he doesn’t have the answer to, like: _friend or family?_

What does 27+ years of unrequited love get you?

48 hours later, they let him visit. Eddie is stable. Conscious. Barely. “Dude,” he says, his eyes half-lidded, his face pale but at least he’s got some color in them now. “Is this sanitary?”

He’s lifting his arm with the IV attached to his blood bag.

“You’re in a hospital, dipshit. So. Yeah.”

“Man, fuck you!”

“Fuck you more, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes soften. Like a basset hound. “Richie…”

The way he says his name makes Richie’s heart clench. “What’s up?”

“You saved my life.”

Words feel like a balloon in Richie’s throat, growing, swelling, until it hurts not to say it.

He’s going to say it. He’s going to tell him.

“Ed—”

“Eddiebear!”

The woman who flings the door open and swoops in nearly gives Richie a heart attack because, for a moment, he swears its Mrs. Fucking K.

She’s pink as cotton candy, flapping her arms around Eddie.

“Myra—” Eddie says it in a groan.

Right. The wife. Fucking. Wife.

“Are you okay? What did they do to you?” She’s fluffing his pillow, repositioning him to sit up, and Richie wants to scream at her: _don’t touch him, you ugly bitch! He just got fucking stabbed! _

But Eddie goes docile. Like a kitten drunk on warm milk. Glassy eyed and pampered. Letting her fuss over him. It makes Richie’s stomach churn.

Worse, he thinks, is the fact that _he_ wants to be the one fawning over Eddie. Taking care of him. Feeding his sick little pity-fantasies, if that’s what it takes to get his dick hard.

Richie stands. Clears his throat. “You need anything?”

_Not like he’s been sleeping in the waiting room for two fucking days. Not like he’s the one who’s been here, hanging on the doctor’s every word._

“We’re fine,” she says.

Coughing up the hairball of a memory—Eddie in the hospital with his broken arm, his mother, the fire-breathing hell-bitch, snarling at Richie to leave, that Eddie didn’t want to see him.

Richie pretends like he doesn’t hear the new whore in Eddie’s life. He’s looking at Eddie. He’s not leaving until the man speaks for himself.

Eddie’s eyes finally find Richie again. They look droopy. Almost ashamed. Weak smile. “It’s okay. Thanks, Rich.”

Richie is pissed, so fucking pissed when he leaves the hospital, but some demons can’t be pulled out by the still-beating heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Richie and Eddie pining...and a Ben/Richie scene. Because I'm trash.

He’s still staying at the Derry Inn.

Everyone else is gone. Well. Almost everyone.

Bill is back home. Bev went to tie up a couple legal loose-ends with her ex. 

Mike is still here. In his creepy library. Ben stayed too. He says he’s scouting for some weird architecture shit, but Richie is certain he’s just sticking around to make sure he doesn’t pull a Stanley.

Which feels like a legitimate concern right now.

There is—like—_no_ service at this inn so Richie helps himself to the bottle of whiskey behind the bar. He’s cleaned off a sizable portion of it before he stumbles up the steps to his room.

Everything is spinning and he’s very alone.

He’s not proud of what he does next. He sends the text to Ben: _hey. Something weird in my room. Probably nothing._

Because maybe there’s a little bit of Eddie in him, too—a part of him that wants to be taken care of. Wants to let someone else make the decisions for a change.

And Richie reads people well—he’s had to in order to survive this fucking long, to duck right before a punch or brace right before a rejection. He’s not a fucking idiot. He called Ben hot over Chinese food and Ben cast him a quick look across the table and Richie thought:

_Oh. Okay_.

It’s not ten seconds before there’s a knock on his door. So fucking polite. “It’s open,” Richie sighs, even though he’s a mess right now. Flopped Jesus-style on his bed, knees hanging off of it. Glasses askew.

Ben—or the broad, hazy Ben-shaped form out of the corner of Richie’s eye—bursts into his room. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…weird sounds. From the bathroom.”

It’s scary easy for Richie to lie. But he’s had a lifetime of practice.

Ben doesn’t hesitate, he just rushes into the bathroom. Richie hears him fling open the doors, the closets. If he’s been honest, Richie likes how brave Ben is. It’s not even that douche-y way that jocks are brave—how they think they’re invincible and rule the world.

Ben rushes in, sans weapon, to a potentially dangerous situation armed with nothing but a willingness to die for his friends, right then and there. Just like, _well, I guess today is the day. _

Eddie would never do that. Eddie would be in the corner, whimpering, cursing at Richie to take care of it his own damn self.

Fuck Eddie, honestly. He doesn’t need him. He’s survived this long without him.

“Coast is clear,” Ben says as he returns.

“Thanks,” Richie says flatly.

Ben tucks his hands in his pockets. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I’m fine.”

Ben is swaying and if Richie doesn’t say something fast, he’ll lose him. Sentences like taffy. _Just tell him what you need. It’s fucking Ben._

“You know,” Richie says. “Actually. Do you want a drink?”

***

It takes way less time convincing Ben to get in bed with him than anticipated.

Then again, Richie is actually a really good flirt. It’s true. Look it up. On his Wikipedia page. Trashmouth, Trashqueen, Trashfuck.

They’re both still wearing most of their clothes. Somehow. Richie has his pants on his knees, but he pulls them back up as he rolls onto his back. Ben is a good fuck. Exactly what he needed. The edge the whiskey couldn’t take off.

“He’ll be okay, you know,” Ben says.

“What?”

“Eddie. He’ll be okay.”

_Fuck. Was he talking about Eddie?_

“Yeah, I know,” Richie says. “He’s got mommy to take care of him.”

“Hmm.”

He’s fumbling with his glasses. Feeling somber now. Drunk and fucked and bitter. “Maybe some of us are just meant to die alone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Ben says. He sounds genuine, is the thing.

Ben is like talking to air. Like no one’s there. He’s the kind of guy you could accidentally spill your deepest, darkest secrets to and not regret it later. Richie, for no good reason, resents Ben for this.

So the talons come out. “Easy for you to say, Crossfit,” Richie complains. Ben is still standing between his knees, so Richie reaches out and touches his happy trail. His pants are unbuckled and Richie tiptoes his fingers under Ben’s shirt, sliding it up to admire the other man’s work.

But Ben’s hand, gently, wraps over his wrist. “Please don’t.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Richie scoffs. “Body of a fucking Greek God and you don’t want to show it off?”

“No, it’s just…” And then he does that thing. That Ben half-smile. “Got another guy’s initials carved on my stomach. Not a great look.”

“Right. That.”

This is a good time for Richie to come up with something clever—he always has something to say, doesn’t he? The mouth that won’t quit. But his words are barbed and he only has quips, sardonic comments, and jokes at other people’s expenses on his tongue.

Ben deserves to hear something nice right now, but Richie can’t bring himself to say nice words. So instead, he asks: “Round 2?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small Ben/Beverly interlude :)

Later, with the water sloshing around the hull of his boat, Bev will trace her fingertips up the V of Ben’s abdomen.

“H,” she says. 

He forces a smile. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He doesn’t want her to stop touching him, either. Not when he’s paranoid that the next time she removes her hands, she’ll never put them back.

“Yeah, well. Guess some scars didn’t heal.”

She tucks her chin on his chest, looks at him, and says: “H. For hero. _My_ hero.”

He takes his shirt off when he makes love to her that night, and savors the way her hands go everywhere.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now some Eddie, my sweet terrible boy.

Eddie feels like goop for two weeks.

Not quite liquid, not quite solid. A gooey, sloppy mass taking up too much space.

The doctors mold him into the shape of a man, but he still feels like he’s recklessly leaving drops of himself behind when he’s discharged from the hospital.

He doesn’t want to leave. Wants to sink into the hospital bed and become progressively goopier. He has a love/hate relationship with hospitals. Loves the medicine, the gloves, the sterilization wipes. Hates the whammy of depression that gets inside of him like a virus and only gets worse, not better, with medication.

Myra is there constantly. He’s also aware of Richie floating in and out and in again. It’s good to see him, but he honestly can’t handle Richie right now. Richie is spikes. Richie challenges him in way he can’t be challenged right now. How can spikes have a conversation with goop?

Eddie goes back to his home in Queens. Back to his routine. Back to the limos and the data processing. He starts to feel more Eddie-like. More in the shape that is Eddie.

He even calls up Richie. Finally. Long overdo. But. He does it.

“Hey,” he says, “come to Queens. I’ll make dinner. You, me, and Myra.”

“At what point does she eat us?”

“Come on, dickweed.” And then, more genuinely: “It would mean a lot to me.”

A pause. But Eddie already knows what he’s going to say.

“Fine. I’ll send you my schedule.”

Then he hangs up. Which is good, because Eddie has words fizzling like carbonation at the tip of his tongue.

He spends the next couple of hours refreshing his inbox.


	5. Chapter 5

When the doorbell buzzes, Eddie yelps and throws the box of pasta in his hand. It cracks open, little shells scuttling across the tile.

“Oh!” Myra whines, her shoes back up as those the pasta might bite. “Eddie!”

“Jesus. Fuck. Sorry.” He scrambles to his knees, rights the box, scoops up the floor-shells and throws them in the trash. He’s sweating. He can feel his polo sticking to his armpits and the back of his neck.

When he stands up, Myra takes his face in her hand and rubs her thumb roughly on his cheek, eyes flicking over his. “Do you need an Ativan?”

“I’m fine—no—it’s okay.”

The doorbell buzzes. And again.

“It’s upstairs. Go get it. I’ll get the door.”

“No!” He says it way too firmly, panic shooting through him at the thought of Richie and Myra, Myra and Richie. Myra’s eyes go wide, her mouth falls open. He stumbles through his words: “I mean—I’ll get the door, keep an eye on the pasta, please, thank you, I love you.” He kisses the side of her face and rushes down the hall to open the door.

Richie’s standing there. And he looks um. Great. Leather jacket overtop flannel overtop a shirt. This douchey hipster look that he somehow pulls off. And he smiles.

His smile is better than Ativan. Eddie’s bones melt, just a little. Goop.

Then Eddie sniffs. And recoils. “Have you been smoking pot?”

“Whoa. Hello to you too. Didn’t realize you worked for the F.B.I. Scab.”

And now anger shoots up. Making him livid. “Jesus Christ, Richie, it’s one fucking night, if Myra smells it…”

“Oooh. What’s she going to do, call my mother?” He’s chewing gum. Eddie watches the white ball stick to his teeth and roll over his tongue in flashes. “You want some?”

“I have asthma, dipshit.”

“No, you don’t.”

Eddie forces himself out of rage’s death grip. Exhales. He wants to have a pleasant night. He wants to thank Richie for saving his life. He wants to be more grateful than he is angry. “It’s nice to see you,” he mutters.

“Yeah. You too.” Richie’s eyes flicker over his door, the Home Sweet Home sign on the front, and Eddie feels like he’s judging him. Richie shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and then fans them out like tiny penguin wings. “You gonna let me inside or what?”

“Yeah, of course, oh—” Eddie steps out onto the stoop with Richie, closes the door behind him. And says, very seriously: “I’m only going to say this once. Beep-beep on any fat jokes. Mom jokes. Sex jokes.”

“What. Does the boar charge when it gets mad?”

Eddie glares. Richie shrugs. “Last one. Cross my heart.”

Against his better judgement, Eddie opens the door and lets the both of them inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dinner that should never have happened. tw: Richie makes a lot of v. rude jokes.

Richie enters his waking nightmare.

It looks like someone’s grandma lives here. There’s carpet on everything. Framed family photos. Fake flowers in fake vases in this fake gingerbread house.

Eddie leads him into the kitchen with the promise of “beer?”

“What a…place.” Richie’s eyes travel to the walls. “You guys like pink.”

“It’s coral,” Eddie snaps.

“Sorry, skipper.”

A turn down the hall takes them into the kitchen. It’s hard to ignore the elephant in the room. The Myra. Stirring a pot. Like a witch at her cauldron.

He presses his lips into—what he hopes—looks like a smile.

“Myra.”

“Richie!” It squawks. _She_. Sorry. Richie is being nice. “So nice to meet you.”

She pulls him into a hug and he wants to die.

“Actually,” he says, peeling back. “We met before. At the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Eddie adds, “Richie was the one who dropped me off. Remember?”

She stands beside Eddie and rubs her hand over his chest. “God, it was such a terrible time,” she whimpers. “Everything was such a blur.”

And it’s a sucker-punch to the chest. Because suddenly Richie thinks:

_Oh. Fuck. He doesn’t know_.

Eddie knows that Richie saved him, sure. Dropped him at the hospital. But he doesn’t know that Richie _never left_. That he stayed there. Slept in the fucking waiting room. Ate out of vending machines. _Lived_ there.

And fuck Myra—she remembers him. She remembers him because she’d shuffle out of Eddie’s hospital room, sans makeup looking like a fucking cancer victim, and she’d find Richie and say things like _Eddie wants to know what painkillers the doctor has him on_ and _Eddie wants to know if he should be worried if there’s blood in his vomit_ and he’d be her fucking go-between, this twisted game of telephone between the doctor, Richie, Myra, and Eddie. But her favorite line of all was: _No, not right now, he’s sleeping._

He’ll grind her bones to make his bread.

An old-school timer dings on the stove.

“The rolls!” Eddie shouts.

***

Eddie has made not one, but three full ass dinners.

Chicken parmesan. Linguine. Salad drowning in vinegar. Fluffy bread rolls.

It’s worth the cholesterol spike, not going to lie. Actually pretty damn good. Richie sponges up marinara sauce with half a roll.

“So Rich, what do you do?” Myra asks.

“I’m a comedian,” he replies. “Stand-up.”

“Not _a_ comedian,” Eddie protests, gesturing towards him. His voice raises, operatic: “_The_ comedian! The master of impersonations! The fun is only beginning!”

Is Richie blushing? No. Fuck you.

Eddie always has a way of making him feel like the funniest guy in the room.

“I’ve got a show this weekend. Madison Square. I could, uh. Comp you guys tickets. If you want.”

“Oh,” Myra shrugs. “We’re not into comedy.”

Now Richie can’t help the laugh that leaves him. Because _that_ is a joke. “What?”

Eddie’s eyes meet his. Pleading. “Your jokes aren’t for everyone, man. You know that.”

“What are _we_ into?” Richie asks. His eyes don’t leave Eddie.

Myra answers for the both of them anyway: “Well, if we’re going to spend all that money on a show, we want to see something good, right? Like a musical.”

“A musical,” Richie repeats.

“We saw Hairspray,” Eddie says. His eyes, also, don’t leave Richie’s. “It’s a classic.”

“Oh, is it? Like how Moby Dick is a classic. Like that.”

“Yeah, fucker,” Eddie hisses. “Hairspray is like Moby fucking Dick.”

Richie wants to fight him. He wants to tell him Hairspray isn’t a classic. It’s a dumb fucking showtune for 14-year-old fat girls.

He wants to fight him until Eddie is so heated, he grabs Richie by the shirt, pulls him across the table, and rage-fucks him, right there, right in front of Myra.

But then Myra opens her trap. “We’re not into racy comedy.”

Richie almost spits the shitty Miller Lite Eddie has supplied him with. “I’m sorry. Racy?”

“_You_ know,” Myra waves her hand. “When it’s all…sex, bathroom humor. It’s like they’re not even trying, you know? Like they have nothing substantial to bring to the table.”

“Mm,” Richie says. “Cool. You two wanna hear a joke?”

“No,” Eddie says just as Myra says, “Sure.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Diabetes, bitch. It’s coming for you.” Her mouth opens wide. Richie wants to stick an apple in it. He stands. “Thanks for the chicken parm. Beep-beep. Tozier out.”

He swivels around and leaves the table. He needs to exit. Doesn’t want to see the surprise on her face anymore. The dumb-animal shock that someone called her on her shit.

But, mostly, he doesn’t want to see Eddie.

No such luck. He leaves, realizes he’s not going to catch a cab in fucking Queens, so he pulls up his phone to find something. When he hears the door swing open and shut behind him.

“Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Richie turns. Eddie is standing in his doorway. Looking small.

“What’s wrong with me?” Richie turns on him. He’s full of venom and he can’t get rid of it. “What’s wrong with _you_? When did you become Norman fucking Bates?”

He’s waiting. Waiting for Eddie to yell at him. To tell him to fuck off.

Instead, Eddie blinks at him.

“You need to leave, man,” Eddie says. His voice is small, sad.

“Yeah. Consider me gone.”

Richie feels like toe-scum. City grim. He wants to crawl into the sewer and tell It to just take his head off.

He walks as far as he can go, but it’s not far enough.

***

Madison Square Garden is packed.

Throngs of people cheering for him. Laughing for him. Shouting at him.

All Richie can think about is one person. That one, empty seat. The comp left up front. Unclaimed.

He’s leaving the city this week. Going back home. It would be so easy to leave this all behind, pretend it didn’t happen, forget Derry again, forget _him_.

But he can’t.

Somehow, he finds himself back at Eddie’s doorstep. He knocks. No response. He checks his watch. It’s the middle of the day. A 2 pm on a Friday. Eddie is probably not even—

Home.

The door opens. When Eddie sees him, he scowls.

“Hey,” Richie starts.

“What do you want?”

“Look, I just came here to…” Richie’s words trail off as his eyes train Eddie. “What are you wearing?”

He’s in knee-length cargo shorts and a safari-dad shirt. Eddie’s scowl deepens. “I’m cleaning out my closet.”

“Congratulations on coming out.”

“Fuck you. Did you come here to make fun of my clothes?”

“No, but you make it so easy.”

Eddie starts to close the door on him and Richie puts his hand on it.

“I’m sorry,” Richie finally spits out. “For what I said at dinner. Wasn’t the time or place.”

“Fucking right it wasn’t. I told you—”

“Yeah. You told me. And I’m sorry.”

Eddie’s fuming. Chewing on his rage like a cow with cud.

“Myra doesn’t want to see you again.”

“That’s fine. I don’t think we mix. Oil and water.”

Eddie’s lips thin. He nods. “Okay.”

Richie glances back into the house. “Is…Myra here right now?”

“No, she’s at work.”

“So…can I come in?”

Eddie deliberates his answer. Richie can see the battle in his eyes. He half-expects him to say _Sorry, my mom said I can’t come out and play_. Sad boy, with skin too pale, bruises around his eyes from sleeplessness, shuffling his feet in the doorway.

Instead, Eddie steps back and opens the door up further. “Sure. Just for a minute.”


	7. Chapter 7

Richie follows Eddie upstairs. The stairs dump them out to a narrow walkway with two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. The bedroom on the right looks lived in—bed made, but not perfect. Sleep mask and books on the bedside table. One of Bill’s books are there.

The thought of getting up and close to the bed that Eddie and Myra share makes Richie want to vomit. Luckily, they take a sharp left towards what looks like a guest room. Homey, but hotel-style impersonal. The closet is wide open, clothes strewn on the floor and the bed.

“I’m making piles,” Eddie explains as he bows in front of the closet, folding up one of his shirts. “Keep, get rid of, donate…it’s just…it’s getting too much. I’ve been holding onto some things for…too long.”

Richie starts to follow him in, but stalls in the doorway. “Did your mom live here?”

Eddie blinks back, surprised. “She did. This was her room when she was…uh. When the cancer got bad and we had to take care of her.” His eyebrows knit. “How did you know?”

“I’d recognize the smell of her panties anywhere.”

Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Fuck you.”

He’s only half-joking. Mrs. K had a very particular smell. Some perfume she always overdid it on—this cloying, baby-powder, grandma-stink that got everywhere. It’d get all over Eddie too, after she smothered him with too much mother-loving, and if Richie stood too close he’d get a whiff of it, clinging to Eddie’s clothes and skin, like the bitch was claiming him. Leaving her mark.

The scent makes him queasy. But he forces himself in the room anyway. His hand rubs over the wooden nob of the bed’s headboard. “Did she die here?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Eddie gets off his feet to go deeper into the closet. Running away from the conversation.

When he does, Richie leans into the bed and whispers to the pillow, “Burn in hell, you psycho bitch.”

“What?” Eddie cranes his neck back out and Richie leans away from the bed.

“Nothing. Show me what we’re working with.”

Eddie frowns at his closet. “After mom passed, we’ve been using this for storage, but…I’m trying to make it into a guest room. Which means I have to clear all this shit out. Half this stuff doesn’t even fit me anymore.”

Richie sits on the edge of the bed and toes a shirt on the floor. “What’s this?”

“Discard.”

“Why? It’s a nice shirt.”

“I just…don’t have anywhere to wear it.”

“Wear it to Hairspray.” Eddie shoots him a look. Richie’s voice goes high: “Try it, Eddiebear, pleeeease?”

Eddie snatches up the shirt. “Stop.” But he does unbutton the one he’s wearing and shrugs it off.

Side-note. In case anyone’s curious. Eddie is surprisingly fit. He’s hidden it away, underneath long shirts and ugly sweaters. But his biceps and shoulders have swell. God bless his Italian grandfather, because the hairless scrawny kid he grew up with now has a healthy smattering of chest hair and a happy trail that trickles down his abdomen, running underneath his belt.

For a second, Richie gets a glimpse of the man underneath that snake-skin of weakness and fear. It’s hard not to like what he sees.

The shirt Richie has chosen for him is this metallic-looking black button-up. No idea where Eddie got it. A time machine, maybe? He buttons it up and looks like a gay Tony Soprano.

He lifts his arms. “Well?”

“Looks like an offer I can’t refuse. Did it come with a horsehead or was that extra—?”

Eddie’s lip curls. “That’s why it was in the discard pile, dipshit. I look like _you._”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

He unbuttons the shirt, tosses it back in the pile.

“No—I’m kidding. It actually looks good on you. Keep it.”

Eddie looks dubious. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

Richie picks the shirt up, tosses it back at him. Eddie catches it. Little smile. “Fine. For you.”

Shirtless Eddie, smiling Eddie, happy Eddie is making Richie dizzy. He claps his hands together. “Let’s pick up the pace. Chop, chop. What are we trying on next. Oh! Your mother’s dress?”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s nice. Having Richie around.

He’s a pain in Eddie’s ass, sure. But he brightens up the room a bit.

They’ve gone through most of the closet when Richie takes a bathroom break. He doesn’t close the door all the way. Eddie hears his piss sloshing around and tries not to panic. Prays he wipes the bowl.

He washes his hands (at least), but then he hears Richie fumbling around. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“It’s a fucking pharmacy in here.” Richie opens the door and Eddie’s heart drops. The medicine cabinet is open. It’s got long shelves. Then extra shelves built into the wings. All of them are full. Packed to the brim with pill bottles. Richie motions to the cabinet. “Are these for you or your mom?”

“It’s—I mean…” Eddie doesn’t have a good answer. His eyes go to the floor and he slowly folds a pair of pants. “Just close it, please.”

“Serious question.”

“Shoot.” Already regretting this.

“When was the last time you took a shit?”

“What?”

“No—I’ve got a better one. When was the last time you were able to maintain an erection?”

“Fuck you, man,” Eddie snarls.

Richie holds a bottle between his fingers. “These are horse tranquilizers. No one can keep an erection on horse tranquilizers.”

“They are not.” Bitterness, like silver in the back of his molars.

“You don’t need them. I’m taking them. For your own safety. And because I know a couple guys who will have a really good time on these.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Quit it—give it back!”

He's a foot taller than Eddie and he swaps his pills back and forth between hands and send him scrambling. Eddie grabs at Richie and Richie stretches his arm above his head.

“Okay! Okay.” Richie steps back and holds up a hand. “I’ll give it back. On one condition.”

Eddie is fuming. “What.”

“You and I take one. Right now.”

“I can’t—”

Richie holds the bottle close to his face and reads loudly: “Side effects! Erectile dysfunction, feminine odor, increased ugliness—nah, man, you’ve got all these already, you’ll be fine. Open your fucking hand.”

Eddie scowls. Then opens his palm. “You’re a jackass.”

Richie hands Eddie a pill and then pops one himself. “Cheers, mate.”


	9. Chapter 9

His mom’s former bedroom smells like mothballs.

There’s no light in here, just a rosy hue bleeding in through the thick (closed) curtains. The air is thick. The room is too hot.

It feels like a sick day. Home from school. Medicine from a spoon. Soup on a tray. 

They’re lying on the floor, head-to-head. The carpet threads tickle Eddie’s face and he plays with them. His fingers brush against the Richie’s hair, so he plays with that too—sinking his fingers in, stroking.

“Your hair,” Eddie says. “It’s so soft. How do you get it so soft?”

“Conditioner, man.”

They are goop. Dripping and mixing with each other. Oh, and Eddie is really fucking high.

And nostalgic. “What were you like?” Eddie asks. “In college, I mean.”

There are whole swaths of Richie’s life he doesn’t know about. He craves them, suddenly.

“You know what was funny,” Richie says, “the things that made me an outcast as a kid made me popular in college. Smart mouth. Class clown. Asshole. People loved that shit.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, disbelieving. “You were the _popular_ kid?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“How was it?”

“I was a real jackass. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I made a teacher cry, once. Told her she gave out bad grades because she had an unsatisfying sex life.”

“Yeah, okay. That is bad.”

“I’m the worst.”

“You’re not.” Eddie shifts to look at him. “You just need someone to beep you.”

Richie turns his head and now those blue eyes connect with Eddie’s. “Are you volunteering, Eds? You going to…_beep_ me?”

“Beep, beep,” Eddie groans. He closes his eyes and resets. The floor is hard and nice under his back. They’re kids again, on a sleepover, in that golden midnight hour when it feels good to take rocks off your chest.

“It’s been two months, by the way,” Eddie confesses.

“Since?”

“Since I’ve been able to maintain…uh…”

“Your Eddie spaghetti?”

Eddie cringes.

“Uh, have you seen who you married?” Richie says. “I’d have a hard time getting it up if I was sleeping with Dumbo too.”

“It’s not…that. Myra’s beautiful.” He means it, too. Richie doesn’t get it, but that’s fine. He doesn’t have to. Eddie lets out a deep sigh. “It’s me. I’m just…a fucking loser.”

He feels fingers dive into his hair and grip, pulling away from his scalp. Eddie’s eyes open as Richie forces him to look at him. “Yes,” Richie tells him. “You’re a loser. You’re my loser. Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Richie’s fingers in his hair, those eyes on his, the closeness…it’s, uh. It’s something. Richie smells like that gum he chews—and Eddie wonders if he tastes like peppermint. Wouldn’t take much to fine out. Just a couple inches across the carpet, the parting of lips, the meshing of tongues.

The thought makes Eddie’s mouth cottony.

“Eddie?”

_Oh fuck. _Eddie sits up too quickly. Two Myras swim in the doorway, then finally merge into one. “Myra!” His voice sounds thin and whiny and he hates it.

“Hi, Mrs. K.” Richie wiggles his fingers in a wave.

Her eyes sweep from Eddie, to Richie, back to Eddie again. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re, um. Cleaning out. The. Closet.”

Eddie barely gets the words out. He can’t help it. He loses it. Laughter spills from him, so intense it hurts its stomach and he has to clutch his abdomen. Then Richie starts laughing too and he _really_ can’t hold it together.

They’re rolling on the floor, howling, tears streaming down Eddie’s face, and Eddie doesn’t even notice when Myra walks away.


	10. Chapter 10

I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Sorry.

_I can’t. I can’t handle it. I can’t handle _him_. And how you are with him. I don’t even recognize you!_

I know. I’m sorry.

_Not in the house. Not ever again. He’s not good for you. _

Yes, Myra. I understand.


	11. Chapter 11

They can’t meet at the house anymore, so. Eddie suggests a bar in Brooklyn.

He’s never actually been to this bar. He had to look it up on Yelp. He typed in a couple versions of _bars for hipsters _and this popped up.

The crowd is definitely young. 20s-30s. Kids with buzzcuts who vape inside. 

Eddie hopes Richie will like it, and he’s proud of himself for picking it.

Ordering a beer is another task. Nothing at home but Miller Lite. He’s never been very good at drinking. But he doesn’t want to look like a cunt, so his eyes land on an IPA and he orders that instead.

The hops taste like dirt in his mouth. Not his favorite. He sips it gingerly.

Richie is twenty minutes late. But. He shows up.

They go through the preliminary small talk. Richie is only in town one more night. Then it’s back to LA. What time is his flight? JFK or Newark?

“You never told me how your show went,” Eddie remarks. His beer is at the halfway mark. Richie has already finished off his and waves down the bartender for another.

“You never asked.”

“I’m asking now, dipshit.”

Richie side-eyes him. “I thought you hated my comedy. What did you call it? Racy?”

“I didn’t say that. Myra did.”

“Yeah. And I didn’t hear you speak up.”

“It’s complicated.”

Richie’s eyes bore into his. Finally, they sweep away and Richie buries himself in his pint glass. “Forget it.”

But it starts boiling up again. That anger. That scab that Eddie can’t help picking, until it is angry and inflamed and hurts like a bitch. “If you have something to say, say it, dickwad.”

Richie shrugs. “I just thought, after twenty-seven years, your balls might’ve finally dropped.”

“Fuck you, man.” It comes out so forcefully, Eddie can feel them starting to attract the eyes of the other people at the bar.

“Yeah,” Richie says flatly and stares him dead in the eyes, “fuck me.”

It’s not a request—right? That would be crazy—plus Richie looks like he wants to murder him (but doesn’t Richie always? And why is that a turn on?). It sends a weird electric energy skipping up Eddie’s bare arms, making his hair stand on end.

It’s like being afraid. The way his heart pounds and his adrenaline surges. But a good kind of fear. The kind of being-afraid that makes him feel braver for it.

Richie, however, is over it. A noise leaves him, like air escaping a balloon, and he fumbles into his jacket pocket. “I need a smoke. Be back.”

He slides off the barstool, leaves. 

Eddie hangs back. Rooted to his spot.

_Get up_. That’s all it would take. All he has to do.

_Just. Get. Up._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally...slow burn comes to fruition :)

Truth? Richie hasn’t smoked since college.

But he needs one now. Mostly—he needs to get away from Eddie, from those eyes filled with trepidation. And “asthmatic” (bullshit) Eddie won’t follow him if it means breathing toxic cigarette stink.

He bums a cigarette from a girl with piercings up and down her ears and chimney smokes it until his lungs rattle. Skeleton bones.

The door swings open, and surprise blossoms in Richie’s chest when Eddie steps out.

“Hey,” he says to catch Eddie’s attention. “Come out to tell me more about how my shows suck?”

“I closed our tab,” Eddie announces.

“My hero.”

Eddie stands beside him. The shorter man shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He’s clearly got something to say, but he’s having trouble saying it.

“Spit it out,” Richie says finally when he can’t take it.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re trying to say. Just say it.”

Eddie contemplates, then says: “Do you have that…one thing you always wanted to do as a kid, but you never did? Because you were too afraid to do it?”

_Never kissed a boy with nervous eyes, a bad temper, and his heart on his cast. _

Richie exhales smoke in Eddie’s direction. He clears his throat, just a little. “What was yours?”

“Soap box derby,” Eddie says.

Richie blinks. Feels like he must’ve misheard, because— “What?”

“Remember?” Eddie is persistent. “They used to have those…soapbox car races in Derry.”

This information is all filtering in, sort of. Hazy memories rising to the surface. They went together to see them race once. Eddie was all hopped up. Pointing at all the dinky cars that rolled passed. _Which one would you race in if you could race? Let’s bet. I want to be the red one. See how narrow it is at the top? That’s aerodynamic. No! Wait! The duck! Richie, look, it looks like a duck—are you seeing this!_

Richie can’t remember the race itself. He’d spent the whole time watching Eddie.

“I built one—remember?” Eddie continues. “That summer I was…when I got sick. I couldn’t go outside, so. I just…spent the whole summer in the garage. Making a soapbox car.”

Again, vague memories. It’d been the summer _before_ the killer clown came into their lives. Eddie was a never-there friend, the most likely to show up late or leave early or not show up at all, so no one had thought much about it when he’d spent the summer quarantined like patient zero.

“Did you ever race it?” Richie asks. He feels like that’s something he’d remember.

Eddie shakes his head. “Never left the garage. My mom was worried I’d—” He inhales a huge gulp of air, like a hiccup.

“Afraid you’d get hurt,” Richie fills in.

Eddie nods.

Richie enacts a little mercy. He stubs out his cigarette and flicks it onto the sidewalk. “So, what,” he says. “You want to build a soapbox car together?”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t want to build a car, dumbass.”

And then Eddie kisses him.

His mouth collides with Richie’s. And it’s not soft, sweet, or timid—or all the other adjectives Richie associates with Eddie. It’s cannonballing into the deep end instead of clinging to the ladder. It knocks the breath out of Richie, who currents hates himself for tasting like cigarettes but—fuck it—he returns the pressure, leaning into it at first, and then gripping Eddie’s arm because it’s too frantic, too much, and he needs to steady the other man.

His eyes fall closed and, when Eddie pulls away, he’s afraid to open them. Afraid to see It, all fanged-smile, taunting him.

Because this can’t be real, right?

But it is. When he opens his eyes, there’s Eddie. Looking up, hopefully. “Is that okay?” Eddie asks.

“You’re the one who’s married,” Richie mumbles. “You tell me.”

Nose-ring wolf-whistles. Even in the night lights of New York, he can see Eddie is blushing.

“We should…um. Go somewhere,” Eddie states.

Richie has been fucked in a bar bathroom. Behind an alley. In all the places you fuck someone when you don’t care about them.

He could make those suggestions, but he doesn’t. The proximity to germs and trash would give Eddie a panic attack. And Eddie deserves better.

“My hotel. It isn’t far.”


	13. Chapter 13

But it feels like forever.

It feels like forever to hail a cab, to get to the hotel, to get in the elevator, to resume kissing, but this time with tongue (he chewed gum in the cab) and this time with hands, Eddie’s fingers in his hair, Richie sliding underneath Eddie’s shirt, touching the hot bare skin there.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Eddie says and Richie’s heart stops.

“Too much?” Richie says. “We can…slow down.”

“No, don’t.” Eddie frowns. “I don’t have, uh. Condoms.”

Neither Richie nor Eddie, it turns out, are the kind of guys who get laid so often that they keep one “just in case” in their wallet.

Richie dumps Eddie in his room then has to turn around, go back downstairs, cross the block to CVS, buy a pack—it takes the bitch forever to figure out how to break cash so he tells her to keep the change—and rushes back to his room. He’s fumbling with the keycard, already preparing himself for the worst—Eddie has changed his mind, Eddie has come to his senses, Eddie has gone home to Myra.

But he hasn’t. When Richie opens the door, Eddie is sitting on the end of his bed. Watching the TV. He glances over when Richie comes in. “Hey.”

The room is small, but his voice sounds far away. Richie dumps the CVS bag on the bedside table and comes to sit beside him. He flops down, propped up on an elbow.

On the TV? Gilligan’s Island, of all things.

“Where did you find this?”

Eddie shrugs. “I was just flipping.”

“The Professor is gay, right? I didn’t make that up.”

Eddie cast him a look. “No. He isn’t. He kisses Ginger.”

“Who cares about a kiss. She’s obviously a beard.”

Eddie scoffs at that, but he’s smiling a little, too.

There’s a small pause in their conversation, a window.

Richie starts: “We don’t have to—”

The rest of his words are smothered by Eddie’s lips.

***

Facts about Richie and Eddie’s first time:

They have a couple awkward stops and starts. Richie elbows Eddie in the face. Eddie’s forehead collides with Richie’s nose. They curse each other out, viciously, then laugh.

When Richie takes Eddie in his mouth, Eddie repeats his name, over and over.

Richie lets Eddie top because he’s nervous.

Eddie keeps asking things like _are you okay?—_which is ridiculous, because aren’t his moans obvious?

When Eddie murmurs in his ear—_I want you to cum for me, Richie_—Richie explodes in Eddie’s hand and sees stars.

Eventually, they fall apart. Panting, sweating, sticky.

“I’ll get you a towel,” Eddie says and starts to get up, but Richie wraps an arm around his middle and drags him back down.

“No, stay. Just a second.”

Richie is feeling grossly needy. A lump filled with decades of need has broken inside of him and now he’s feeling lazy and weak with its poison.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I’m right here.”

And he kisses Richie’s forehead. It’s so simple, so sweet. And Richie hates himself for feeling comfortable here. He lets himself enjoy it, though. Just for a second. He’ll have plenty of reasons to hate himself in the morning.

They settle in together. Eddie looks uncharacteristically relaxed. Dopamine drunk. Confident. He’s not the boy Richie crushed over. He’s a man now, with a diagonal scar across his cheek. Another ragged line down the center of his chest.

How can he have so many reminders of his own bravery…and still forget it so often?

His hand rests on Eddie’s hip. He strokes the bone there. _Remember this._

“Do you really have to leave tomorrow?” Eddie murmurs. Sad eyes wanting.

But what’s the alternative? Stay. Live with Eddie and Myra. Sleep in their basement. Be Eddie’s little soapbox boy that he plays with in secret, when Mommy isn’t looking.

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie says. “I’ve gotta go.”


	14. Chapter 14

Eddie promises he’ll come see him in LA.

Richie gives him an outline: sunny skies. Expensive cafes where they draw flowers in your foam. A place to fuck that doesn’t smell like Mrs. K.

Could be nice. They call each other up a couple times and, each time Richie gives him the pitch, the fantasy feels more and more real.

He and Eddie sipping coffee while they make fun of every hipster, failed actor, and MILF that walks in.

He and Eddie getting kicked out of the local comedy shows because they can’t stop heckling. 

He and Eddie enjoying morning sex. Afternoon sex. Evening sex.

Myra, 3,000 miles away. Out of sight, out of mind.

They even set a date. Eddie makes up an elaborate excuse to Myra—something about a business conference. He buys the plane ticket.

Richie buys a cake that says “Welcome to LA Asshole”. Gluten free. Not because he’s sentimental, but because he hasn’t insulted Eddie via frosting yet and it seems like a good opportunity.

He’s just brought the cake home when he gets a call from Eddie. It takes him a second to make out the other man’s words.

“I’m—I’m sorry, so sorry, I tried, I really did, I just—” Gulping, hiccupping breaths, followed by a familiar rattle-and-hiss. “—I couldn’t do it.”

He should’ve known. Eddie told him he’d never flown before. Eddie warned him he was afraid of heights.

“Hey. It’s fine, Eds. Deep breaths.” Richie takes a knife and smears the lettering on the top half of the cake. “Look. I’ll make a trip out to New York soon. When I have a weekend. Okay?”

“I’m sorry, Rich,” he groans. “I really wanted to. I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck LA,” Richie says. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Asshole,” the cake says.

Asshole, asshole, asshole.

***

Richie has the miles, so.

Whatever.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...In the midst of angst, a flasback for your viewing pleasure.

They’re thirteen, following their shadows and devouring their ice creams.

They almost always walk side-by-side. Sometimes Richie walks ahead. Or Eddie. But they’re never far from each other. Glued at the hip.

Richie is in a sugar-haze, slurping, when he notices something off about Eddie’s shadow. It keeps lurching.

“Dude,” he says. “Why are you walking like that?”

“Like what?” Voice clipped, intense. Always on the defense. “I’m walking the way people walk—you have a problem with that?”

“No, you’re _not_…you’re, like, skipping or something.”

“Are you blind? Do you need to get your glasses checked?”

And when it clicks, oh boy—Richie laughs. “Are you…jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk?”

“Am not!”

“Yes, you totally are! Afraid of breaking mommy’s back?”

“Screw you, I’m not doing anything.”

“Okay.” Richie points to a crack in the sidewalk. “Step on that crack. I dare you.”

“I’m not doing your dumb dare, you fucking Nazi—”

“Doooo it!”

Richie and Eddie collide as Richie tries to push him onto the sidewalk crack. Eddie fight back, arms flying. They’re shoving, grabbing at each other—Eddie’s cone goes flying, so he smacks Richie’s to the ground as well, and then it’s _on_, a full-out wrestling match on Main Street.

Eddie pushes him too hard and Richie’s shoe loses traction on an ice cream cone. He slips backwards and hits the concrete hard.

He doesn’t remember blacking out, but when he opens his eyes Eddie is hovering over him, pale white. “Richie! Are you okay? Say something, oh God, please be okay.”

“…Eat a bag of dicks,” Richie wheezes. His head is throbbing. He touches the back of it. It comes back wet.

“Don’t touch it!” Eddie yelps. “Come on…can you stand?”

Eddie gently guides Richie to his feet. He’s panicking, fussing over Richie, and Richie feels out of it, kinda hazy. He lets Eddie walk him back to Eddie’s house, where Eddie runs inside screaming: “Mommy! Richie is hurt! He hit his head and I think he has a concussion and he’s bleeding and—”

Mrs. K—who has never looked at Richie with anything but utter contempt—now rushes to him and kneels down in front of him, petting his hair back. “Oh, come here, Richie. What’s the matter?”

“Can you…call my dad?” He sways a little on his feet.

“Yes. Of course.” Her hands are too hot and they squeeze his arms. “But let’s get you cleaned up first, honey.”

She takes him into Eddie’s bedroom and instructs him to lay down. Then she gets a wet towel and gently cleans up the back of his head, all the while cooing to him, telling him it’s alright. He doesn’t feel alright, though. He gets sick—twice. Throws up all over her dress. She doesn’t bat an eye, though. Doesn’t even flinch. She just strokes his back, tells him to get it all out. Then she leaves and comes back with a bottle and a spoon. She tells him it’ll help and feeds it to him. Like he’s a fucking baby.

Eddie is there, too. Sort of. He lingers in the doorway and keeps peaking in, asking if Richie is okay, but his mom tells him to stay out.

“When is…um…my dad coming to get me?” Richie asks.

“Oh, he’s at work.” She smiles really wide. “He thinks it’s best if you just stay here tonight. Isn’t that fun?”

He’s never spent the night at Eddie’s. No one’s spent the night at Eddie’s, ever, as far as he knows. But, no, it doesn’t sound like fun. He wants his own mom and he wants his own bed.

At some point, he closes his eyes and fades out again. The pillow smells like Eddie. So do the blankets. That’s comforting, at least. He falls asleep in Eddie’s smell.

When he wakes up, it’s daytime. He has a headache, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as it did last night. There’s a trashcan by the bed. His vomit in it. Water and that bottle of medicine by the bed. He rolls over and finds Eddie’s feet in his face. Eddie is snoring lightly. They’re in the same bed, foot-to-head. He has to piss, but for some reason, he’s afraid of running into Mrs. K alone in the hallway, so he pulls the blankets over his shoulders and ignores it until Eddie wakes up.

They go to school together and Richie can’t leave the house fast enough. “Did we keep you up last night?” he asks Eddie as they walk to school.

“What do you mean?” Eddie squints.

“You know. All the loud sex me and your mom had.”

Eddie screws his face up at him.

Richie feels more like himself as the day goes on. Not 100%, but well enough that when he finally goes home, he doesn’t tell his parents about hitting his head, or throwing up, or Mrs. K spoon-feeding him. The whole thing makes him feel weird, even if he can’t put his finger on the _why_, and he and Eddie never bring it up again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start getting racy...and sad. This is why we can't have nice things.

“I want to try something,” Eddie prefaces.

“Should I be nervous?” They’re naked in the hotel room Richie has booked for the weekend. They’ve been kissing, licking, biting, grinding for what feels like forever. Times like these, Richie hates how blind he is without his glasses, because he can’t read the expression on Eddie’s face. 

“_Shut up_ and roll over,” Eddie tells him.

Richie laughs. Then his laughter turns into moans.

Fun fact: hand-sanitizer carrying, screams-when-stepping-into-unknown-puddles, hypochondriac Eddie Kaspbrak eats Richie’s ass like a fucking champion.

He doesn’t stop, not until Richie’s thighs tremble and he loses control of his tongue—cursing and murmuring Eddie’s name in the same string. Only then does Eddie plunge his fingers inside Richie, and then his cock. Richie can’t possibly get harder, is hard enough to cut glass, and when Eddie’s fingers warp around him, he come so hard he nearly goes blind.

“Christ, Eds,” Richie pants. “You’re a freak. Just so you know.”

“So are you. Jerk.” Eddie kisses his back and Richie feels the other man’s teeth on his shoulder, drawing little love-bite down his spine, making him shiver.

Eddie is ravenous. Whatever’s been unleashed in him, Richie likes it.

***

But it’s not all flowers and fuck-fests.

They break up and get back together three times within the _first fucking week_ of…

Whatever they’re doing. Not dating, exactly.

Fucking. Yelling at each other. Apologizing. More fucking.

During one trip, they get in a fight while Eddie is driving Richie back to the airport. Eddie goes on one of his fast-paced, long-winded lists of everything wrong and Richie can’t hear it any more so he grabs Eddie’s bottle of pills in the console and tosses it out the window.

They nearly smash into another car—though Eddie contests the word _nearly_, says that’s just how people drive in New York, and Richie thinks that maybe Eddie should stay off the road.

The comment prompts another fight. Eddie tells him he hopes his plane goes up in flames, jackass, before speeding off.

Richie is already inside, already through security and at his gate when Eddie calls. Close to tears, hyperventilating, saying he’s sorry, so sorry that he put that in the universe and he needs Richie to be safe, he needs Richie to be okay, he needs Richie—

Richie cancels the flight, extends his stay another night.

Eddie makes some excuse to Myra. It truly blows Richie’s mind that she’s buying his bullshit. Eddie can’t lie for shit. The truth is always written all over his face. Those expressive fucking eyebrows.

Maybe she knows. She has to know something is going on. Right?

He hates Myra. Fuck Myra. In his mind, she’s a badly cloned Mrs. K, complete with the Munchhausen and guilt-trips and mind games. 

But when he thinks about it, when he thinks about their marriage, he gets that uncomfortable pinch in his gut that alerts him to find a bathroom, quick, before he pukes in front of humans.

Instead of dwelling on it, he goes back to his hotel room with Eddie. Eddie kisses him like he’s come back from war and they can’t get their clothes off fast enough. They lick, pull hair, and this time he’s inside of Eddie, Eddie cursing and squirming and leaving nail-marks on his back.

“Is that okay?”

“_Fuck you, _don’t fucking stop or I swear to Christ—”

Richie wants to consume Eddie—he wants to suck on his throat and bite his chest and kiss his lips until they bruise—but he knows better.

He knows not to leave marks.

The come together—moaning, swearing, sliding. Richie is still blissed out, sweating, kissing Eddie between panting breaths, when the words fly from Eddie’s mouth:

“I love you.”

And, fuck. Richie can brace for anything. But he hasn’t prepared for that.

So—with those soft, genuine, chocolate-colored eyes gazing up at him—all Richie can return with is:

“Gay.”

***

Richie isn’t a romantic.

It’s just not the way he was wired. So fucking sue him. He’d prefer Eddie to call him _asshole_ instead of _pumpkin_. But, sometimes, Eddie likes to take them out, and Richie can’t complain.

Date night is cute. He’s fine with it.

Tonight, Eddie picked this place called _La Marca_, an Italian pasta joint. So Richie throws a blazer over his t-shirt, leaves the hotel, and heads over. He chews gum to distract himself from the thoughts that tumble around in his head.

He’s been distracted. The l-bomb…well. It’s been keeping Richie up. Eddie has to know he can’t say it back. Right?

It’s not that he _doesn’t_. It’s just…

It’s complicated.

He’s trying to figure out a way to bring it up nicely, over dinner, maybe, something that’ll just put the kibosh on this whole _love_ business. But then he walks in, sees Eddie. Eddie is sitting in a booth towards the back. He cleans up nice—hair combed back. Sharp suit. Looking nice enough to eat.

Except Richie also realizes they’re not going to have this conversation tonight. Because Eddie isn’t alone.

Myra is sitting next to him.

And what.

The actual.

Fuck.

He considers leaving. The restaurant. The city. Hoping back on the plane and pretending this never happened. But then again…

Richie always runs head first into conflict.

So he draws on a smile and approaches. When Eddie sees him, he has this deer-in-deadlights look.

“Kaspbraks,” Richie says. “What do I owe this?”

“Oh, _Rich_,” Mrs. Kaspbrak lets out a huge sigh. “You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

Eddie has this knife-between-his-teeth smile. He stands to greet Richie, shakes his hand, and when their bodies brush in a half-hug, Eddie hisses: “Check your phone, asshole.”

When Richie does check his phone later, he puts the pieces together:

Eddie got dressed, left his house, and came to La Marca. What he didn’t realize was that Myra had followed him. Because Myra isn’t a dumbass. She followed him into the restaurant and confronted him. She didn’t buy his story that he was grabbing dinner with his old friend, Richie Tozier.

_Who is she, Eddie? Who is she?_

So she sat down beside him, ready to go head-to-head with Eddie’s hot mistress.

Hence a string of frantic texts from Eddie: _MYRA IS HERE. SHE FOLLOWED ME. DON’T COME!!!_

Whoops.

Eddie looks like he wants to die, but Myra is tickled pink. Happy as a pug on a pillow. So happy, she invites Richie to sit down, orders all the appetizers, and can’t stop talking. The same woman who hated his guts is honestly _thrilled_ to see him because he’s not some blonde little bimbo in fuck-me heels.

Of course, he could burst her bubble and tell her about how he had her husband’s dick in his mouth last night. But he refrains. For now.

What’s funny? You put a bottle of wine in Myra, and she’s actually not that bad of a human. Kind of charming. In a chatty way.

“It’s been so nice,” she muses as she stabs a plate of fried cheese balls. “Eddie doesn’t have a lot of friends at work.”

“I have…friends…” Eddie says. Completely unconvincingly.

“He’s been so low,” she leans forward, ignoring Eddie, “since his mother passed away.”

Richie puts his elbows on the table and leans in closer to Myra. “Tell me about it. Like, the morbid details. Did she flop her fins around? Give one last great shot out her blowhole?”

Eddie scowls. “You’re a jackass.”

Richie takes his drink down in a single victorious swallow and waves the waiter over for another.

“I’m just glad I was there for him,” Myra sighs.

“Oh, yeah?” Richie’s eyes flicker between the two. “Did Myra nurse you back to health? Did you suckle her teat of compassion?”

Eddie’s eyes throw daggers. “It was a dark fucking time, dude. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But we got through it. Together. Didn’t we, Eddie?”

She draws a nail through his hair, tracing around the shell of his ear.

Times like these, Richie hates how well he can read people. Because he can see it. In her face. In those constantly-watery eyes and that doughy smile.

She loves him.

And why wouldn’t she? Look at him.

Eds. Eddiebear. Eddie Spaghetti.

The best fucking man in the world.

Richie’s stomach lurches—_bad_—and for a second he’s petrified he’s going to spill it all over the table. He holds it back, somehow, mutters a quick _gotta go_, and rushes to the bathroom.

Just in time. He gets sick in the toilet. Nothing but bourbon and appetizers.

“Hey,” he says when he comes back to the table, fresh strip of gum melting in his mouth. “So I’m not feeling great. I’ve got to bounce. Already closed the tab, so. You two enjoy. Nice to see you, Myra.”

“You too, Richie,” she beams.

Eddie scrambles to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”

When they exit, the outside hits Richie like a wall. Even at night, it’s muggy. Fuck this city.

“I had no idea she’d be there,” Eddie says. Automatically launching into excuses.

“It’s fine.”

“_Fine_? It’s not fine. That was fucking terrible. My heart is pounding…”

Richie steps to the edge of the sidewalk and lifts his arm. Where are the cabs?

Out of the edge of his vision, Richie can see Eddie rock back and forth on his heels. “Can I still see you tonight?”

“Is that what you want?”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, Richie turns to him. “What do you _want_, Eddie? Do you want to come over tonight? Do you want to go home and play parcheesi? Do you want to…build a fucking soap box car? What do you _want?_”

Eddie’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “I don’t…know what you want me to say.”

_Oh thank fuck_. A cab pulls up. Richie opens the door and nudges passed Eddie to get in. “I’m staying at the Hudson. Room 212. Come. Or don’t. Up to you. Not going to tell you what to do—I’m not your mother.”

Eddie says his name, but Richie is already in the cab.

***

Richie opens the minibar. Pops the cap of a tiny wine bottle.

An hour passes. Two.

The supplies in his minibar start to dwindle.

It’s two in the morning. Now three.

Eddie isn’t coming.

Now the minibar is empty. Fuck the bar. Fuck the hotel.

Just fuck it.

It’s four in the morning. He pulls out his phone.

Scrolls to a familiar number and stares at it. Can he? This is a bad idea. Dumb. Richie is such a loser. The king of losers.

He dials it anyway. It takes a few rings and Richie almost gives up until—

“Hey.” Guy’s voice. Sleepy, gravelly.

“Hi!” Richie’s voice feels loud and annoying even in his own head. “Rise and shine, sunshine. Did I wake you? Of course I did. It’s 4 on a Saturday…how am I the only party animal in this club?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Great, even.”

An elapsed silence on the other end. “Are you sure?”

Now his tongue sticks. “I…uh. I think I—”

Jesus Christ, just say it…why are these three little words so fucking hard to get out?

He takes a breath. Expands his lungs so the sharp words can come out without ripping his throat straight open, which feels raw on the inside, scratchy and wounded.

“I need help.”


	17. Chapter 17

Eddie’s keys rattle when they hit the bowl in the foyer. Everything has a place: keys, jacket, shoes.

“_Goodness_,” Myra says, “that food was good. The chicken was a bit dry, though—don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Eddie parrots. “A bit dry.”

He’s not listening, not really. He thinking about Richie. The Hudson. 212.

Myra goes inside, flops down on the couch in front of the TV. It’s stuffy inside and her face goes splotchy with the heat. She uses her hand as a fan.

“Eddie,” she whines, “Can you get me a—?”

Immediately, his brain goes:

Club soda.

Antacid.

Advil.

Wet washcloth.

He’s already halfway to the bathroom, where most of her potential _wants_ are, but she sideswipes him with:

“—glass of water?”

“Yes, Myra.”

So he retreats, reroutes into the kitchen, and takes a thick glass from the bottom shelf, the kind she likes. He fills the glass, starts to carry it to her, and…

His feet stop.

In the kitchen, underneath one of the counters, there’s a drawer of miscellaneous items. A threaded needle. Mismatched pens. A sheet of quarters from every state—they’re only four away from collecting all fifty. And a letter.

He’s not sure what possesses him now, but he puts the glass down, opens the drawer, and takes out the envelope. Removes the letter.

Of all the things that Stanley Uris wrote, _remember_ seems to be the hardest to live by.

He remembers one of the last times he saw Stanley alive—right after they thought they’d killed It. He and Stanley rode their bikes back home together. Eddie had left feeling free, his bike moving faster than ever, wheels and aluminum light, skipping down the road. But as he got closer to home, his palm began to itch. And he thought about the rubber on his bike handles, and the dirt on his skin, and the two hundred kinds of germs that were crawling into his open flesh, diving into his blood.

By time they pulled up to his house, his anxiety had lumped in his stomach and metastasized throughout his entire body.

“My mom’s going to kill me,” he whimpered.

Stanley just gave him a look—those eyes always sharp, clever from under his curls. “Only if you let her,” he said.

It was the first time anyone had phrased it like that. _If you let her_. It:

  1. put him in control of everything that went on in that house. And—
  2. made him complicit. Self-sabotaging just by being passive.

Fucking Stanley. An 80-year-old in a teenager’s body.

Rest in peace, pal.

He puts the letter away (keep it safe) and picks up the glass of water. He carries it through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room. Myra has her feet up on the couch and her eyes on the TV.

“Thanks, Eddie-bear,” she says when he puts the glass down.

He opens his mouth. Takes in a breath.

_Losers have nothing to lose._

He wants to tell her.

No.

He wants to scream it at her. Shout. The way he did with his mother, nearly three decades ago. He wants to stand his ground, put his foot down, throw away the pills and inhaler and _all of it_.

“This isn’t real!” he wants to scream. “This isn’t love! It’s a placebo!”

She’s not the person he wants to spend his life with. She’s not someone who will force him out of his comfort zone, who will push him and encourage him to take risks. She’s not his mother, either, the deranged woman who would’ve smothered him to death if she could—and he would’ve let her, too.

Myra is not even a bad person. She’s none of those things.

She’s just the ghost of something he’s had a really, really hard time letting go of.

Eddie is clingy by nature. He likes his small comforts.

And he’s not doing this for Myra. Or Richie. Or Stanley. Or himself, to be honest.

He’s doing it because he knew this little boy once who annoyed the hell out of an entire small town, who grew up afraid of his own shadow, who was taught how to _need_ but never how to _love_ and, despite all that—he loved his friends very much and he was brave when it counted.

He wants to take care of that kid for a change.

The obnoxious little shit deserves that much.

Myra’s blue eyes meet his and he can see her brain working—she can always tell when something is off, when there’s a slight rasp in his breathing, or the smallest hitch in his voice, or a single fucking eyelash out of place.

“Eddie?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

She’s not going to have to worry about him anymore. Maybe she’ll find relief in that.

All he can say is: “I’m sorry.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: orgy? Sorry I'm super shameless guys *shrug*

The water sucks.

So does sunshine.

Cloudless days. Salty air.

Richie judges all of it from the cockpit of Ben’s sailboat.

They’re moored out on Long Island. He had to take the fucking LIRR to get here. How inconvenient is _that_.

But there’s also limited cellphone reception. Nothing but water all around. No open bar. And best of all: No Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie has even started reading. He hasn’t picked up a book since college, but here he is. Tom Wolfe in his lap. Scrunched into the only seat with an overhang so he doesn’t get sun-blasted. 

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Bev lounges on the bench-seat beside him. She’s in this adorable red one-piece that hugs her figure. Wearing sunglasses that probably cost as much as the boat does, honestly.

“Sunshine is overrated,” Richie grumbles.

“No. I meant _that_.”

She waggles her eyebrows at Ben, who’s about half a mile out. Muscles in his back working as he swims to shore, then to the boat, then back again.

“Shallow bitch,” Richie says.

“Grumpy hag,” Bev teases. She doesn’t have the defensive sneer that Eddie would have, though. She’s all playful, kittenish smiles.

He didn’t _get_ Bev growing up. He gets her now.

But when you share an experience—like looking into the toothy soul of an ageless clown-monster—it tends to bring you closer together.

They’re the Deadlight Duo. For whatever that’s worth.

Eventually Ben comes back and pulls himself up the back of the boat. Richie’s eyes find his book as Ben towels off and then leans over to kiss Bev. They’re cute. Make a pretty couple.

“Who’s beer is that?” Ben asks, nodding to the beer in the center console.

“Um,” says Bev. “Mine?”

One of the rules of the boat—one of Richie’s rules, actually. Don’t let me drink. Too easy to numb himself out that way and he’s trying to find inner peace or whatever-the-fuck.

Whatever will help him get over Eddie.

But, you know. Everyone slips.

“Yours?” Ben asks dubiously.

“Mmhm.” She puts the beer to her lips, takes a tiny taste. Fights back an obvious cringe. “Tasty.”

Ben nods. He’s not dumb, but he’s also not going to baby a grown man. “Right. I’m going to get changed. You need anything?”

“Another kiss, please.” Beverly smiles wide.

Ben gives her one and Richie makes a retching sound. Once Ben vanishes downstairs, Bev gives Richie an amused look and hands over his beer.

But Ben's spoiled the mood. And he's right. Richie shouldn't be drinking. He sighs. “I didn’t really want it anyway.”

And he tosses the bottle overboard.

Bev gasps. “The jellyfish!”

***

Richie isn’t sure what he’s looking for, honestly.

Sobriety? Clarity?

Maybe he’s hoping he’ll wake up, cured by the salt in the sea air, and realize he never cared about Eddie. Barely knew the guy. Should never have slept with a married man in the first place. I mean, really. What did he _think_ was going to happen?

Idiot.

It does help. Being here, with Beverly and Ben. Not feeling quite so alone.

Even if they are constantly in the honeymoon phase.

Ben looks at her like he adores her. Worships the ground she walks on. Would carry her through life if she asked him to.

Beverly is—well. She’s more like Richie. She loves Ben, that’s obvious; she soaks up his attention like a sponge, can’t keep her perfectly manicured fingers off of him.

But there’s something sad in her smile. _I don’t deserve this_, it says.

“It feels like a dream,” she confesses to Richie one night while they lay flat out on the deck, staring at the stars above. Richie can hear Ben clattering around below, clearing plates from dinner. “Like…one day I’m going to wake up and Tom will be lying beside me, not Ben.”

“Abusive ex Tom?” Richie hisses. “Fuck that guy. Never trust a Tom.”

“Gee, now you tell me.” She sighs. “Hard to believe I put up with that. I just…thought that was all I was worth. You know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

Water sloshes against the side of the boat. You don’t hear that in LA. It’s nice. Soothing.

“You deserve good things, Bev,” Richie says.

He can’t see her, but he can tell she’s smiling. “You too, trashmouth. You know that, right?”

He feels her fingers over his scalp, petting her hair. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about that time on the bedroom floor, Eddie’s fingers running through his curls. _It’s so soft_.

“Tell me again, please,” Richie mumbles.

“You deserve nice things.”

***

It’s been almost a week.

He’s tried just about everything. How long does it take to get over a hypochondriac little shit?

He’s staying in what Ben calls the “v-berth” and what Richie calls the “pointy end of the ship.”

They’re on the other end of the sailboat, in the main cabin, and Richie has to pass it in order to get to his room. Tonight when he walks by, they’re already in bed. He doesn’t mean to peak, but the door is wide open. Bev is in her nightie, and she cackles—not a little girl giggle, a _real_ laugh—when Ben tickles his lips down the side of her neck.

Is this what normalcy looks like? Richie doesn’t recognize it.

Ben’s eyes catch on Richie’s. Politely, he stops, but doesn’t remove himself from their tangle.

Richie feels his face get hot. He fumbles for a glass (has to open the drawer to get it, everything’s locked away on the rocking boat) and shakes it. “Getting water, don’t worry,” he says. “Night, kids.”

Bev’s hair springs around her face. “Richie,” she says, and then reaches for him, wiggling her fingers like a child. "Come here."

***

Among the list of things they don’t talk about and secrets Richie keeps:

Once, a long time ago, Bev gave her body to the cause.

Richie gets the temptation.

Beverly loves him. Ben loves him. The Losers love him. And honestly, he just really needs to feel loved right now.

***

Paradise doesn’t last.

The second he steps out of the airport, he nearly gets hit by a taxi. The cabbie shouts at him, flicks him off.

Yeah, fuck you too, LA.

To be honest, it feels good to be home. His bones were getting soft on the sea. He needs the grit. Fake tits, Starbucks on every corner, a whole city awash with the stink of desperation and empty morals.

His kind of people.

He finally gets a car, tosses his bags in it, and heads back to his place. He’s a half an hour away. Nice, two-story house. Modern vibes. Gate out front. Pool in the back. 

And his dad was _so worried_ when he said he was going to be a comedian. Look who’s laughing now, pops.

Except something is wrong.

Eddie is there. Sitting outside Richie’s gate, on a suitcase. Bowed over.

Richie gets out the car and clears his throat. “Hey. Soup kitchen is about fifteen minutes south.”

Eddie blinks up at him. _Soup kitchen_ wasn’t far off. His eyes look sleepless and he’s got black stubble crawling up his jaw.

His eyes light up, though, when he sees Richie. He pulls himself up to his feet. “Richie! Oh, thank God…you’re here.”

He approaches Richie, but Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Holding his ground. “Yeah, dude. I live here. What are _you_ doing here?”

Eddie’s voice comes quickly, almost frantic. “I…did it. I broke things off with Myra. We’re separated. Officially.”

A hiccup of hope in Richie’s chest. But he’s trying not to let it show on his face. “Ah. Well. I’m sorry, man.”

“I’m not.” His brown eyes look so earnest suddenly. “It wasn’t…healthy. What we had. So I booked a ticket—”

“You _flew_?”

“Yeah, fuckface, I flew. You got a problem with that?”

Now Richie is trying (and failing) not to smile. “No. No problem.”

“I got on a plane and came here. I had to look you up. Like a fucking stalker. You weren’t answering your goddamn phone. So…I waited. Figured you had to show up sometime.”

“Like…waited? Outside my house?”

He sighs. “I’ve been coming here every day. And living out of a motel nearby. I’m ninety percent sure it has bed bugs.”

“Oh, yeah. You definitely have bed bugs. I can see them crawling over you. Little legs all over your hair.”

Eddie shivers and shakes his hand through his hair. “Beep, beep.”

Okay. Enough games. Richie presses his lips together. “Did you figured out what you want yet?”

“You, asshole. It’s always been you.”

Eddie looks like shit—sleep-deprived and in need of a shower. But he also looks _good_. Solid. A little more spine in his back. A real boy.

He means it. And Richie’s going to try not to let that get to his head.

He pats Eddie on the shoulder. “Okay. Come on, buddy. Let’s clean you up.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally DID NOT know how to end this so here, have some fluff!

Hot lights. Blinding.

Richie can’t see the audience on stage, but he can hear them. A rush of cheers greets him when he steps to the microphone.

He’s nervous about this show. It’s the first time he’s incorporating some of his own materials into it. He already threw up backstage. But. He’s here now. Baby-steps.

Plus, they _love_ him. And that feels good. He grins.

“Hey, what’s up?” he greets his audience and wraps a hand around the stand. “I’m Richie Tozier and—”

“You SUCK!” screams a voice from the back.

“Yes, thank you—that’s my boyfriend, he comes to every show. I’m so lucky.”

Sarcasm drips from his tone and the audience laughs.

They’re off to a good start.

And it stays like that the whole show. The new material sticks and lands. He gets to interact with the audience. They eat it up. When his set is over, the applause is thunderous, and he feels like a fucking rockstar.

At the end of the show, he goes out, shakes hands. Meets, greets, takes pictures. They’ve got a bar in the theater and he finds a familiar face there. Looking damn good repping the merch in a show t-shirt and fitting pants. Eddie doesn’t hide under layers anymore and Richie’s grateful for it.

“Hey, heckler,” Richie says as he sits down beside him. “Am I going to have to call security on you?”

“Yeah, maybe. Can I bribe you with a drink?”

“You can try.”

Eddie already has Richie’s bourbon ready for him. Before Richie can take it, Eddie steals a kiss. “You were great,” Eddie murmurs when he peels off. “How do you feel?”

“Great. The last time I felt this good, I was between your mom’s thighs and she was howling—”

Eddie groans as though he’s in pain and Richie catches his groan, kissing him deeply.

For a second, he forgets the audience. And the stage. And all of it.

Nothing feels as good as this.

“Gay,” someone coughs, and Richie barely hears it, is used to that shit, but—

“Yeah, you’ve got a fucking problem with that?” Eddie snaps. Eyes wide, snarling. He’s a Pomeranian on a short leash. All bark and tiny bite.

It’s cute, really.

Richie knocks his knee into Eddie’s. “Hey. Wanna get out of here?” And then the magic words: “Ice cream?”

***

It’s become a tradition to get ice cream after every one of Richie’s shows. Like they’re kids again.

There’s a parlor open late and they grab cones before walking back to Richie’s car.

Eddie has been recounting Richie’s whole show—as if he wasn’t the one _performing_ in it—but it’s sweet how animated he is about it, mouth going rapid-fire as he describes the audience reactions. Richie is on a show high, having a hard time comprehending, so he loses himself in Eddie’s voice and the sweetness of the ice cream on his tongue.

Which is when he glances down and sees something that makes him chuckle.

“What?” Eddie stops, all defensive, and turns to him. “What’s so funny?”

Eddie’s is standing _right_ on a sidewalk crack. Completely oblivious. It’s such a small thing—but, for some reason, it makes Richie so happy he wants to cry.

“I love you,” Richie blurts out. The words feel easy. Natural. _Right_.

Eddie blinks. Confusion, then a small smile crawls up his face.

“I love you too, Rich,” he says.

Richie kisses him, and his tongue tastes cold from the ice cream.

“Asshole,” Eddie murmurs between kisses.

“Jerk.”

But they don’t stop kissing, even as vanilla dribbles down Richie’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A BIG thank you to everyone who came on this journey with me!!! It's been a while since I had this much fun writing and I really enjoyed making these assholes love each other. Thanks for reading!


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